Sounds of the Heart
by BeatrixForNow
Summary: Poetry: a view of Harry Potter’s 5th year, describes mostly in sounds. Mild HPDM slash to follow, but only if you squint.
1. Part One

_**Author: **BeatrixForNow_

_**Updated: **May 16, 2006_

_**Disclaimer: **All Harry Potter characters etc. etc. belong to J.K.Rowling._

_**Summary: **Poetry: a view of Harry Potter's 5th year, describes mostly in sounds. Mild HPDM slash to follow, but only if you squint. _

_**Notes: **All reviews and comments are appreciated—truly. Flames will be disregarded. Enjoy._

_

* * *

_

**Part One**

* * *

**silence**

so impenetrable that breaking it

would be a gross mutilation

of the stillness that hatred's

burning creates.

-

**deafening**

it's there, a roar raging in your ears

as you tighten your grip

wings pulsing weakly against your fingers.

A metallic light blinds you, reflecting off your glasses

and you look

away

as the perfect sphere of gold

rolls out your palm

victory.

-

**white noise**

of everyone buzzes around you

a myriad of colors swish by

only supported by offered arms

and lethal heels.

-

**laughter**

loud and raucous, as a lithe

redhead tumbles into your arms

loosely gripping her glass

spiked.

A byproduct of the celebrations,

And you walk away.

Ginny is still laughing.

-

**echoes**

humming in the lofty hall

as your footsteps lead away from

the beat of the Wicked Sisters behind you.

-

**pianissimo**

doleful chords murmur through

the hallway

Opus 62, No. 2

You enter the small room and

stare

as a flaxen head bows over

the keyboard

and it seems that the music has been

plucked from the very

air itself, living a tune.

The head does not lift but the

music stops

reluctantly

on E sharp.

He lifts the pedal and averts his gaze,

_Chopin,_

he declares simply

and begins again

sadly.

Waltz in B Minor.

-

**broken french**

the faint smell of peeled newts

permeates the air of the

dank corridor

as you stride towards your weekly façade

You enter the familiar classromm;

a sharp face blazes in the fire

greasy hair and dark robes squats

in front of it.

You cough and the blonde female in the fire

scowls and mutters

while the man

spits out a string of broken French

And you find yourself wishing that you

could understand.

Even though

_'Merde'_

Seems pretty obvious.


	2. Part Two

_**Author: **BeatrixForNow_

_**Updated: **May 21, 2006_

_**Disclaimer: **All Harry Potter characters etc. etc. belong to J.K.Rowling._

_**Summary: **Poetry: a view of Harry Potter's 5th year, describes mostly in sounds. Mild HPDM slash to follow, but only if you squint. _

_**Notes: **All reviews and comments are appreciated—truly. Flames will be disregarded. Enjoy._

_

* * *

_

Part Two

* * *

**swish**

and the bed sheets rustle

stark white and blinding

damp with sweat and fear.

You scramble out of them

wishing to be free

from the confinement of cotton.

-

**trickle**

of water, shakily poured

into a glass

weekly routines now just

a pleasant

reminder

of others who aren't

sleeping.

-

**creak**

of the portrait as it's being pushed

open

and you silently scurry out

not heeding the bleary calls of

_Who's there?_

-

**sigh**

of breath and a tentative step into the

unfamiliar courtyard.

The silence out here seems

larger somehow.

Not oppressively still

like the air inside,

but heavy and voluminous

Scented with roses.

-

**shrill**

tweet of morning

sounding above the stone arches

streaks of pink and blue

accompanying the day.

And the shadows mock you

Playing teasingly off

a doorway you've never

seen before.

A hesitation

and the stillness is pierced

as the morning bell rings.

-

**grinding**

rhythmic and steady

a pestle crushing the beetle eyes

into a fine amber powder.

You look up and squint through the smoke

Before hurridly adjusting the flames.

A presence looms behind you

and pauses

before grudgingly moving on

silent in his loathing.

You bite your cheek and smile.

-

**coughing**

erratically, behind you,

as smoke fills the air

before—

an explosions and his cauldron shatters,

fragments and amber powder spill at your feet.

_55 degrees_, the voice snaps

_Not 500!_

You cast a sympathetic look

to the trembling boy behind you.

Amusedly, your mind whispers:

'_Merde'_.

Behind you, an oily voice echoes it.

Malfoy snickers.

-

**scratching**

a quill flies over the wet parchment

precise in it's movements.

She looks up from behind her text

and remarks

that today's brewing was not in the textbook.

Frustrated, she walks off to the library.

* * *

_Special thank you to carmel march and marionetti for reviewing!_

_I found another HPDM fic with the same title as this one--I've contacted the author and she said that it was fine for me to continue. I honestly had no idea, but I'm sticking with this title because it works. _

_Random piece of information: When smoke hits oxygen at the temperature of 932 Fahrenheit (500 Celcius) it becomes fire (or something to that extent). Gotta love CSI Vegas. And just in case you didn't know, 'Merde' in French basically means 'shit'. ;)_


End file.
